Caribbee (26 page)

There were gasps but whether in shock or admiration it was difficult to tell.

‘Recollecting that this fort is intended to defend to seaward – we shall be assaulting from landward.’

‘And the other?’ persisted Lydiard.

‘Fort Republiek will be helpless, as being unable to fire on account of ourselves being within the town limits.’

In the cool of the night, there was a gentle, lulling heave to the sea and it seemed preposterous to believe that they had any kind of a chance – Kydd’s experience at the assault and conquest of another Dutch outpost of empire, Cape Town, had shown him how only the professional military had what it took to conduct an advance on the enemy in their own territory. By comparison they were amateurs – courageous, spirited and intelligent, but amateurs for all that.

‘Everything depends on our forcing entry past the fort,’ Bolton said slowly. ‘If we knew that was assured …’

‘It’ll be assured if we do it,’ Kydd snapped. ‘Clap on all sail and press on and we can’t fail.’

Unsaid was what would happen if they penetrated into the desperately restricted waters inside but then found it untenable to remain. To turn completely about by some means and effect a retreat under overwhelming fire …

As morning imperceptibly lightened the tropical seascape in a soft violet, the four frigates hove to ten miles off Curaçao, south of Willemstad and the channel, and safely out of sight.

There was that preternatural heightening of the senses as always felt before an action, but Kydd had much to occupy his mind.

Details: the division of seamen into boarders and stormers, the equipping of the boatswain’s party with the right gear, the clearing away of an anchor for rapid letting go and more – down to the colour of the field sign that each man would wear.

Last, every single boat the ship possessed was put into the water for towing.

They were ready.

Brisbane was not one for ceremony, and it was his single flag ‘preparative’ whipping down in
Arethusa
that set the little armada on its way.

By degrees the light strengthened, and when they made landfall, visibility in the mists of morning was enough. Formless as a dream, the rumpled coast gradually took on reality. The channel entrance was impossible to miss, the gentle fall each side in the even run of the shoreline unmistakable – as was the squat menace of Fort Amsterdam firming out of the haze.

They were committed.

Arethusa
took the lead,
L’Aurore
fell in close astern and the others followed, arrowing on a line of bearing straight for the channel entrance. A quiet torpor seemed to lie on the day-fresh landscape – not a thing moved. They came closer; a Dutch flag drooped atop the fort.
Arethusa
and each ship following had battle-ensigns a-fly but hoisted at the main-mast head of each was a large white flag of truce, a legitimate move that Brisbane hoped would confuse and delay any response. But it was at the cost of preventing any British ship opening fire while such a flag flew.

Nearer still, and not a gun had fired. Ahead, however, by the seaward entrance, just as Brisbane had foreseen, the thirty-six was moored athwart, its broadside squarely across their track. Beyond, the spars of the corvette were in a similar position, and both had left a space clear for ships to pass.

It was astounding: arrow-straight for the enemy’s vitals and still no gunfire, only the gentle whisper of wind in the sails, the familiar creaking and slatting to be heard in any ship under sail, and ahead the entrance broadening.

A sudden thud – the white of a discharge from the fort rose and swelled in the light airs. The ships stood on. Two more from the casemates. Did they not see the flags of truce? If so, they were ignoring them. Then an uneven firing came on, which hid the fort in roiling gunsmoke.

They had engaged too soon! In the time of reloading the four ships were up with the entrance and then inside, insanely close to the fort, with the town slipping by closer than Portsmouth Point.

Then the light morning breeze hesitated – and backed into the north. Instantly the moment became fraught with peril. Headed by a foul wind, the ships slowed and began to yaw. It was the worst of luck, and Kydd’s mind raced as he tried to think how Brisbane could retrieve their predicament. No complex signals were possible in the rapidly changing circumstances and it was inconceivable that four ships in the tight space could back away now.

Then, as if relenting, the winds veered back to the east and they took up again on their perilous course.

There was a burst of musket fire from the left side as soldiers ran up, and then they were past, heading for the anchored thirty-six. Aboard there was frantic activity on her deck. Men boiled up from below but stopped, paralysed with fear at the sight of the heavy frigate about to pass by her stern to smash in a pulverising broadside. But she did not, for the flag of truce was still flying and not a single shot had been fired from any British ship.

Arethusa
’s helm went over and in the same instant her anchor plunged down and she slewed about, her bowsprit crazily jutting over the little seawall and path, pointing directly into the town. By now gunfire had broken out generally in a bewildering chaos of noise and powder-smoke.

L’Aurore
followed and, passing
Arethusa
, did the same, clearing the way for
Anson
to take position mid-channel. Peering back through the rolling smoke it looked as if
Fisgard
had taken the ground with the foul wind and was swinging across the water but then she broke free and, as planned, heaved to ready.

Kydd saw that something was going on in
Arethusa.
A group of officers were clustered around the capstan as Brisbane conspicuously bent to a task: the air was filling with the whip and slam of shot, but he was writing. He finished, folded a note and handed it to a midshipman with a strip of white cloth pinned around his hat.

The brave lad tumbled into the gig and under a large white flag was pulled frantically to a landing place at the Waaigat, a side-water for small craft. Kydd gave a grim smile: Brisbane was giving them chance of surrender before broadsides at point-blank range devastated the town. It was a terrible risk, though, for at any time the Dutch artillery could arrive to smash the ships to ruin.

There was no slackening in the gunfire from the shore and first one then another man fell in
Arethusa
, and
L’Aurore
took her first casualty, a fo’c’sle hand, Timmins, who dropped into a motionless huddle.

Kydd felt anger rise. Then the midshipman came into view and scrambled up the side to report to Brisbane.

The white flag at the masthead soon whipped down and
Arethusa
’s boats were in the water, striking towards the stunned thirty-six, Brisbane waving his sword like a madman.

‘Boarders,
awaaaay
!’ Kydd roared, and stood aside as men raced to take up their weapons and man the boats. Gilbey seemed to have been infected with the same frenzy and, with drawn blade, bellowed warlike curses at them while they stretched out to take the enemy from the other side. The gloves were off now.

In minutes it was all over in the thirty-six, and Brisbane himself hauled down its colours.

With rising feeling Kydd looked around.
Anson
had sent boats, which were now alongside the corvette, and fighting was taking place on its upper deck. There could be only one outcome there.

‘Stand to, the stormers!’ he called. It had to be soon or not at all: the enemy could not be given time to bring up forces in mass.

Then he saw what he had been waiting for: Brisbane had taken boat and the men bent to their oars to head for the jetty followed by his other boats.

‘Flying column, away!’ he roared. ‘Mr Curzon, warp alongside the thirty-six and take possession. Stormers, away!’

Kydd took the tiller of his boat as it filled. This was the vital flying column that had to succeed. Beside him a set-faced Renzi sat. Kydd grinned at him and ordered the boat to bear away inshore, bellowing at them as he, too, was caught up in the excitement.

The zing and smack of musketry was all about them but Kydd, with a storm of emotion, had seen that every one of the frigate captains was now in a boat heading in. He waved his sword aloft in a crazy show and saw them all return the gesture.

The boat following each was packed with marines, and as the boats made to land at the jetty they stood off and kept up fire over the heads of those storming ashore. Quickly they assembled and trotted off to the south, in the direction of the ominous massive ramparts of Fort Amsterdam. Kydd motioned his stormers to join them.

The flying column was headed in another direction, to a little jetty on the opposite side of the Waaigat. ‘Go!’ The men needed no encouragement – they formed up quickly. Ten in all: marines, seamen, Kydd and Renzi. Muskets and cutlasses. To take on an entire naval base.

As they made off, Kydd forced himself to an objective coolness. This was not to be a frontal assault on the base but, rather, a holding operation, keeping enemy heads down while a decision was made. Renzi’s information was enough to indicate that the base was only lightly defended, if at all, due to its clandestine nature. Possibly it could be carried by the men he had, that was his decision, but made only after a reconnaissance.

This side of the Waaigat there were few buildings and the road was deserted. Their rapid progress had wrong-footed the Dutch – a furiously rising swell of firing to the south was probably the storming of Fort Amsterdam and their attention was no doubt all there.

‘How far more, Nicholas?’ Kydd panted. Renzi was by his side – it had been given out that he was aware that this was to be a glorious occasion and wished to be present to record the action but in reality his presence was crucial in identifying the location.

‘Not far – under a mile in all. Round this hill and along the shoreline a space,’ he gasped. Sea life was not the best preparation for a fast march and Kydd noted Sergeant Dodd behind breathing deeply too.

The glittering expanse of the Schottegat came into view and with it their objective.

‘Fall back!’ Kydd ordered, bringing them all out of sight, remaining to peer past a thick bush.

‘The old building with the garden near overgrown,’ Renzi pointed out.

It was quiet – too quiet. But then again a wise French commander of a secret base would lie low and keep watch until the purpose and gravity of the British assault became known, then make his move. Any forces he might have would therefore be held within the building – and ready for them.

They didn’t have too much time, however, for at any moment the tide of war could turn against those storming the fort and a retreat would be forced on them. Kydd darted a glance around. ‘We’ve got an advantage. Sar’nt Dodd!’ He had spotted one thing in their favour but wanted confirmation.

‘Sah!’

‘Am I right? The building yonder is more or less on a point of land sticking out into the Schottegat. Doesn’t that mean we need only advance on this side to be sure we have ’em under eye all the time?’

‘Er, yessir.’

‘Very well. Half o’ your men to make a stand here in line, the rest with me.’

They didn’t have the luxury of time to take a cautious approach: they would have to show themselves and rely on those covering them to spot where musket fire was coming from and deal with it.

Kydd, with four men only, ran from bush to tree, dodging until they got close, then dropped to see what they could. There were no lights inside, understandable as such would be aiming points. But there was a menacing, absolute stillness that played on the nerves.

Did the French have an unpleasant surprise waiting? Were they even now squarely in the sights of hidden marksmen waiting for them to trespass before giving away the secret of their presence by opening fire?

Doubts tore at Kydd. The distant firing around Fort Amsterdam was slackening. Now individual shots were all that could be made out. Something had happened. One way or the other there had been a victory won – or lost. There was no more time.

‘Watch out for me!’ he said hoarsely. He got to his feet and sprinted for the door, falling to one side on the expectation of a sudden eruption of armed men.

Nerves keyed up to the limit he listened. Nothing – not even a creak or whisper.

There came the sound of running feet – but it was Dodd arriving to take position the other side of the door.

Kydd stood motionless, listening. Not the tiniest whisper – just the thudding of his heart.

He flashed a warning look at the sergeant. They had to move, and in a violent swing Kydd crashed against the door – and fell sprawling as it gave easily. Dodd stepped over him quickly and went in, bayonet at the ready. Scrambling to his feet, Kydd caught up and, every nerve taut, they moved forward.

There was a sudden crash from a side room. They wheeled to meet the threat. A cat miaowed its annoyance, ran out and was gone.

Cautiously they peered into the room. There was nobody. The other rooms were the same – just the sad debris of a deserted house, the smell of decay. Feverishly they cast this way and that.

At the rear of the house, french windows opened on to a pleasant but overgrown sitting-out area and an ornamental pond that stank with weed. Neglected and shrivelled fruit hung from a small orchard and the grass was thick and rank.

And still there was not the slightest betraying creak or scrape.

Kydd blinked and tried to think, retracing their steps and looking about more carefully.

They searched the house room by room until at last he was forced to accept that there was absolutely nothing anywhere, not the tiniest scrap of evidence to show that this had once been a threatening secret naval base.

‘Call ’em here, Sar’nt,’ he ordered.

The rest arrived, hesitantly looking about, Renzi’s face set tight.

‘Nicholas,’ Kydd asked in a low voice, ‘are you not mistaken in your locations? There’s nothing here to—’

Renzi looked stunned, but managed, ‘It was here, I’ll swear. Just that …’